


Addicted to hurting

by Mrs_Moony



Series: LAHWF stories [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Andrew's story, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Losing All Hope Was Freedom, Past Child Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 13:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12632139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Moony/pseuds/Mrs_Moony
Summary: The strongest person he knows.That's what Ian said about him. That's what Andrew tries to believe. But he hasn't always been strong. His past is a bumpy road full of dark spots which he still stumbles upon sometimes, though he is a survivor now. He's chosen to keep fighting.This is a story about the time before that. Before the Protectors. Before all of it.





	Addicted to hurting

**Author's Note:**

> It's been quiiiite a long time, but I'm back.  
> I haven't forgotten about this story, and the delay can mostly be blamed on the slow process of getting my laptop fixed after it broke... but it's also on me. I had a huge writer's block, but a few days ago, I had this idea, and I'm currently working on the ninth chapter of Losing All Hope Was Freedom.
> 
> In the meantime, this is a little snippet of Andrew's story, who is my favorite OC of all time. I might post a bit more in the future (plus stuff about the other OCs) but I mainly want to focus on the main story now. 
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy this one!

 

A N D R E W

 

“One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two, one…”

Andrew snaps his eyes open.

The alarm went on an odd number, which means his day is either going to go really bad or that his dad might actually come home tonight for Ellie's birthday.

“…two, one, two, one, two.” He inhales, trying to hold the breath in for as long as possible. Once he lets go, he decides that he needs to get fucking moving.

He pulls on a shirt on his way to the bathroom where he avoids his reflection in the mirror that's been leaning to the left for years but no one ever cared enough to fix it, then brushes his teeth and splashes some water on his face. There's an empty pill bottle on the edge of the sink, right by Ellie's toothbrush. A year ago, he would have freaked out. Now, he barely spares it a glance as he trashes it in the can.

It's not very often than something surprises Andrew – not in this house, not in this _life_ , if he can call it that – but when he steps down the narrow stairs, avoiding the discarded junk waiting for him on the bottom and is met with his mother's eyes staring up at him from the hallway, he barely manages to hide the shock.

The half-second when he hesitates, one foot not quite touching the floor while he tries to get his lungs to work like they should, tries to quiet down his heartbeat because he is sure that his mother must hear it at this rate, is a mistake he cannot afford to repeat. A carefully tilted smile dances on his lips as he steps towards his mother, keeping at least a foot's space between them when he finally stops.

“I'm back,” she says, her hoarse voice too excited, her pupils too dilated. She says it like a question, one that he should answer for her, a riddle that is still too difficult for her to solve. He can't ask her why she came back, because everything about her convinces him that she doesn't know either.

“Mom,” is the only thing he manages to say, the only thing short enough to not let the anger seep into his voice, to allow him to keep the rage at bay.

She stands there without a word, just looking at him as if she's seeing him for the first time. Andrew notices the expensive looking clothes that look ridiculous on her skeleton of a body, the pearls on her neck and wrists, the smeared red lipstick which he assumes she used to cover the way her lips constantly bleed. She's trembling, she always is, that hasn't changed, but apart from that, it's hard to recognize her.

“When did you get back in town?” he asks, though the real question is struggling to get past his sealed lips. _Where have you been? Why did you come back?_

“Couple days ago,” she mumbles, dismissing it with a fragile wave of her hand. “But I just got here now. Where's um… where's your sister? And Fred? I thought we could eat together, you know? A family breakfast. I brought some food, thought we could… oh,” she stops her rambling, her gaze stopping on the clock on her right. “It's late, isn't it? School… I thought…”

Andrew doesn't know what to do, what to think. His mother doesn't seem to expect an actual answer – instead, she puts her bags down and rambles on and on about Paris and Milano and Rome, cities he knows for certain she's never been to but despite that, he nods and lets her tell her stories while he collects himself.

It's almost noon, which means Ellie won't come home for at least a few hours. There is a fierce urge flowing through his veins to protect her from this somehow, to spare her the pain which he's had to endure so many times already. But the part of him that still answers to logic knows that it's pointless.

He can't protect Ellie any more than he could protect himself.

“The color's coming off,” his mom says in a haze, standing in the entrance to the kitchen as her gaze travels past the walls, seemingly oblivious to the dirt and the trash. “we should redecorate before your dad comes home, don't you think?”

“I, uh,” he starts, his eyes filling with tears. He takes in a shaky breath and curls his hands into fists, pushing his fingernails into his palms strongly enough to draw blood. “I don't think that's a very good idea. Maybe we could…”

She turns around, looking at him just like she used to, looking more than herself than she had in years and he can't, he can't do this.

Andrew gets ready to leave, and he should ignore his mother's voice as he does so, he _should._

“Honey?” she says, gripping his arm tightly. “Let's talk, okay? Please.”

“Talk about what?!” he spits out before he can stop himself, regretting it immediately.

“Andrew.”

He turns around, lets himself be dragged towards the kitchen table, lets her make tea and pretend that this is normal. It's not like he has enough strength to put a stop to it now – all of his energy is being spent on holding himself together.  

“You wanted to talk,” he says after a few more minutes of her nonsense. Years ago, he would have been able to listen to her bullshit stories for hours. Now, though… When he looks at her, his skin itches, his muscles spasm, his blood is begging to pour out –

“Yes. Yes, dear. It's been so long, huh?” Alice reaches out her hands and turns her palms upwards, inviting him, but Andrew won't let her do this.

“Five months,” he says. _You don't get to do this. You don't get to come back and act like it's okay, like you didn't leave us._

“I'm _so_ sorry,” she exaggerates, her pale-blue eyes glistening with tears, and in that moment Andrew knows that he's lost her. That this is just another game of make-believe. That it's not real.

“Are you really?” Why won't he just shut up? Stand up and leave her there, like she left him? Why won't he just let her go?

“I am. The fact that I had to leave without you broke my heart, but it was the only way. I had to take care of some things, but I'm back now, baby. I'm better. Things are going to be good from now on, even your father will see, he's…”

“He's sick.” Andrew's words resonate in the silence, and Alice's gaze finally leaves him. She laughs dryly, still abandoning his eyes. “He's sick, he hasn't seen you in five months, he has no idea how to raise a family and he sure as fuck won't see how you coming back is a good thing.”

“Stop saying that,” she smiles, looking somewhere above his shoulder, letting the tears fall down her face and smearing her lipstick even more as she attempts to wipe them off. “Don't you want us to be a family again? And little Alice…”

“Ellie,” he corrects her, standing up from the table. “Her name's Ellie. And you'll be out of here before she gets home.”

The tears stop. The pain in her face turns into fury. Her broken nails would leave pretty deep traces on his face, but he's not afraid of her anymore. The person in front of him is nothing but a shell of his mother, a ghost.

“I'm still your mother, Andrew.” Alice tries to stand up, too, but her legs give out and she sits back down with a hiss.

Their eyes connect and the silence grows, thicker and thicker until disturbing it seems impossible. People used to say that he looked just like his father, and Andrew quietly disagreed every time the words left their mouth. He may have had his father's face, his eyes, his voice, but every expression on his face could just as well have been his mother's.

Now, he's sure that his face never looked like that. Broken, maybe, but never this empty.

“You stopped being my mother a long time ago,” he says at last, finally walking out of that room. He leaves her behind, along with the house and the memories that should have been better but weren't. As he's walking down the street, he freezes, realizing that not a single part of him wants to come back. And he can't just do that, can he? There's Ellie, if nothing else, and his dad, however shitty he's been at the whole father thing. He can't leave them behind, not like that. Not when _she's_ back.

After thinking it through, he decides to head back, ready to ignore Alice once more if he sees her, but she's nowhere to be found. Her stuff is still there, scattered across the hallway floor, and the groceries are lying untouched on the kitchen table.

He goes back to his room and grabs his backpack, then unplugs his phone and stuffs the charger inside. All he needs is in that backpack, and even if he was leaving forever, he wouldn't take much else with him.

“Please,” Alice's voice startles him from the doorway. He turns around as quickly as he could, backpack in one hand, a stony expression to hide how hard it is to leave again. But he has to.

“Let me go, Alice.”

She flinches but smiles nonetheless as she approaches him. “My sweet, sweet boy. Don't do this to me. There's still so much to say… I love you, you know that, right? I would never hurt you.”

Andrew shuts his eyes closed, willing the memories to go away, willing his arms to stop itching. He counts, but his mother speaks at one and he can't tune her out. And then she's right there, squeezing his wrist, and he has to physically keep himself from pushing her away. That touch brings out the past, the past he buried deep, the things he fought to forget. The memories that were supposed to go away with each cut, but never did.

Finally, he snaps out of it and forces his hand out of her fragile grip, speeding towards the doorway and leaving her behind. He doesn't stop until he's on a different street, clutching the phone in his hand and focusing on walking towards the bus stop in front of him. There are other people waiting so he pulls up his hood, hoping to hide the way he knows he looks right now, but it's almost pointless because he can feel a scream crawling its way up his throat.

The bus appears, and he jumps on it as fast as he can, pulling out his headphones and pretending that there's some sound coming out of them, even though the only thing on his phone is a voice message that he won't – can't – play here.

Andrew traces the fresh tattoos on his wrists, again and again until his fingers get numb. He tries to get a hold of himself, to remember the ways not to fall apart, but his therapist's voice is a blur and all he can think about is his mother smiling at him from the doorway as he was shattering, breaking apart, bleeding out on the cold tiles of their bathroom and begging the smile to come off her face for at least that once. He presses the scars harder and chases another memory, an old one. The one when Ellie hasn't been born yet, when his father was setting things on fire and they had no money and his mother kept telling him to…

_“Hold still, sweetie. It'll be just a flash.”_

And it's back, the feeling of disgust, the urge to vomit until there's nothing left of him, until he's dead or not here or not a boy whose pictures are still online for pervs to jerk off to, not a boy who had to stick his fingers into his mother's throat at the age of seven to force her to throw up the pills.

He opens his eyes, needing to remind himself of his surroundings. The tattoos shine brightly against his skin, and it brings him some sense of calm.

Ellie is a reason to face their mother again, to resist the urge to run away. He needs to protect her and he won't let Alice destroy her, just as he won't let her shatter him into pieces once again.

 

 


End file.
